


A Draft Comes In

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: How Novel [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Fluff, Graduation, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, John's backstory, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Moving In Together, Mystery Stories, Romance, Student Sherlock, Unilock, Writer John, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: Sherlock's graduation is rapidly approaching, and with it, changes are on their way. Meanwhile, John gets some news about his book.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: How Novel [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/934941
Comments: 27
Kudos: 79





	A Draft Comes In

John cannot move. He cannot even remember the last time he moved. Maybe he has always been here, frozen with shock.

A hand on his shoulder jolts him back to life, and he whips his head up, blinking like a fool.

“John?” It’s Sherlock, an expression of concern on his face, his school bag abandoned on the floor by his feet. It sounds as if he’s said John’s name several times now.

“John, are you alright?” he asks.

John swallows and nods. “Yeah, fine.”

“You’re just… standing there,” Sherlock points out. “You look dazed.”

John nods again. God, he needs to pull himself together. He gives himself a mental shake and straightens his spine, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. Wordlessly, he hands Sherlock the piece of paper he’s been clutching for who knows how long.

Sherlock takes it and scans it quickly. His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open in amazement.

“Oh, John,” he says, starting to grin, “this is wonderful!” He starts reading the letter over again, aloud now. “‘Dear Mr. Watson, We are pleased to announce that you have been nominated as a finalist for the 30th Annual Ellipsis Literary Award, in the Mystery/Horror category, for your novel _Murder in Marylebone_. You are cordially invited to the awards dinner on April 15th…’”

Sherlock trails off, apparently too delighted to speak, judging from the way he’s grinning. John doesn’t need him to continue, of course; he’s memorized every word already, down to the address of the awards dinner venue.

“John,” Sherlock breathes.

“I know,” John says, his voice still shaking a bit. “I know. I… I can’t believe it.”

“Why not? You’re a skilled writer, and it only makes sense for you to be recognized for it,” Sherlock says, as if it’s a given. Perhaps, to him, it is.

The shock is wearing off, and John abruptly starts laughing. “I’m up for a _literary award!_ ”

Sherlock chuckles. “Yes, you are.”

“Sherlock. A _literary award!_ An honest-to-God, real literary award!”

“I know, I read the letter too.”

John half-leaps into the air, feeling like doing a jig. If he knew how, he would. “Holy shit! Holy! Shit!”

Sherlock laughs, and steps close to take his hands. John hops about a bit more, twirling Sherlock with him, until they stumble into each other and end up in an embrace.

“I can’t believe it,” John whispers.

Sherlock squeezes him tighter. “Believe it.” He tilts John’s chin up for a quick kiss. “We should celebrate. Right now.”

John smiles at him, taking in the familiar sight of his smooth skin, tantalizing curls, and bright eyes. “Yeah? What do you have in mind?”

He expects Sherlock to suggest dinner, or drinks, or something. He doesn’t expect the suggestive glint in his boyfriend’s eyes.

“Oh,” John says, and lets Sherlock drag him, giggling, toward the bedroom.

* * *

Later, John stares at the ceiling, calmer but still reeling from the news. Sherlock rolls over and onto John, resting his chin on his arms.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, smiling.

John grins at him. His curls are wild, his eyes soft. Again, as usual in this position, John is struck with gratitude and amazement that this marvelous man is his.

“Thanks, love,” he says, tracing across Sherlock’s cheekbone with his thumb. Sherlock presses into the touch, then turns his head to kiss John’s palm.

They lie in silence for several minutes, letting their heart rates return to normal after their celebration. Eventually, Sherlock, ever restless, rolls over again and drags John on top of him for a bit more snogging.

“What— what’s got into you?” John asks, breathless, after a while. He looks down at Sherlock, who is grinning.

“I told you, I’m proud of you and you deserve this.” Sherlock allows John to sit up, and they curl together against the headboard. “Now, who else is nominated in your category? I have to know, so I can investigate them and so prove that you are, in fact, the only acceptable winner.”

John laughs as he goes for his phone. “Not that you’re biased.”

“I’m not!” Sherlock looks affronted. “The fact that you and I are together has nothing to do with this. I have based my decision on empirical, tangible evidence.”

“You have not!” John chuckles. “You don’t know even who the other nominees are, and there’s no way without reading their material to know who is the best writer. Ergo, you are biased.”

Sherlock crosses his arms. “The mere fact that I’ve never been enticed to read these other people is evidence enough that you are superior, I should think.”

“Shush, I’ve got the list.” John skims it, and freezes. Sherlock sits bolt upright, apparently sensing his alarm, and takes the phone.

The list of Mystery/Horror finalists is ten names long, most of them established writers, with a couple debut authors as well. But the name John dreads most is—

“James Moriarty,” Sherlock says aloud. “Well, that settles it. Either the people who choose the nominees are far less competent than I had hoped, or they’ve already decided you’re going to win. His nomination is clearly a mere courtesy.”

Despite the consternation in his gut, John snorts. “I appreciate your faith in me. But this is some stiff competition, whatever you may think.”

Sherlock tilts his head. “You’re still going to win.”

John swallows, hoping he’s right. Sherlock seems to pick up on his newly formed worry and kisses him again. So John leans into the touch and lets thoughts of anything except Sherlock fade away.

* * *

John steps inside the foyer of 221, shivering. The early December chill feels as if it’s seeped into his bones, even during the short walk from the Tube station to the flat. He stomps his feet on the rug, and shakes a few droplets off his coat before hanging it up.

“Oh, John!” Mrs. Hudson appears in her doorway. “Hello, dear. Is it raining?”

John turns with a smile. “A bit. And it’s bloody cold.”

“Well, I hope Sherlock took his coat when he left.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t think you need to worry about that. I doubt he’ll ever let that coat out of his sight.”

They laugh for a moment, then Mrs. Hudson ushers John inside her flat for tea. He tries to protest, to say that she already does too much for him and for Sherlock, but he has to give in — after all, there is no fighting Mrs. Hudson when she has made up her mind.

“So where is Sherlock today? Class?” she asks as she pours them both tea.

“Yep,” John replies. “He’s got an exam today. One of the scary-sounding chemistry ones, applied molecular chem or something. That’s probably not right, but I don’t know.”

She smiles. “Nor do I, dear.” She sobers quickly though, face going serious. “Is he alright, though? He’s seemed a bit snappish lately.”

John nods. “Yeah, he’s stressed. Exam time and all, I’m not surprised.”

“Well…” Mrs. Hudson pauses to sip her tea. “I hope that’s all it is.”

“What do you mean?” John asks, stomach twisting. Does she know something he doesn’t?

“Oh, just that graduating can be a different stressful thing all on its own. I wonder if that’s part of it. Has he talked with you about what he’ll do after?”

John hesitates. Sherlock has been better about discussing things, but this is one topic they haven’t touched on much. “No, not really. But he’s brilliant. I’m sure he has some elaborate plan.”

Mrs. Hudson nods. “I’m sure he does. And now, what about you? How’s that new book coming?”

That makes John grin. She’s almost as much of a fan as Sherlock, and it’s endearing. “It’s nearly there. The publisher is laying it out, and I’ll be getting a galley proof soon, to check everything over.” He feels a private thrill at the thought of the galleys going out soon, and his plan for one of them.

“When will it be published?” she presses, eyes lighting up.

“Autumn,” John says. “In mid-October.”

She reaches over and squeezes his hand. “I’m so proud of you.”

He blinks, then squeezes her hand back. “Thanks, Mrs. H. That… that means a lot.”

Their conversation shifts then to other matters — Mrs. Hudson’s hip, their plans for the holidays, and their gifts for Sherlock’s rapidly approaching graduation — and then she brings up something that sends a flutter of nervous anticipation through John.

“So John — and I’m sorry if I’m prying too much — but I was wondering if you two have thought about just giving in already?”

John frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Moving in together,” she clarifies.

“Oh,” John says. “I… Honestly, I dunno.”

She pats his shoulder. “Well, you don’t need to know right now. I shouldn’t have asked.”

And perhaps she shouldn’t have, but now John can’t stop thinking about it. It’s been something that occurred to him a while back, but he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with Sherlock. Yet, he knows he should.

Oh, well. That’s a worry for another time.

A few minutes later, after John insists on washing up, he is freed to go upstairs to Sherlock’s flat. He’s surprising his boyfriend, because this is his last exam, and John wants to celebrate. He planned in advance, bringing over the ingredients over the past few days. Sherlock, ever oblivious to trivial matters such as the contents of his refrigerator, has no idea. He doesn’t even know what this dish is called; he only refers to it as “that thing with the peas” whenever he requests it from John.

So John rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

An hour later, Sherlock comes home. John turns with a grin at the sound of his boyfriend’s approach. “Hey, you.”

“John.” Sherlock stops short in the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d surprise you, if that’s okay.” Feeling a little awkward, he gestures toward the kitchen. “I’m making dinner. Figured we could celebrate a little tonight, before everything tomorrow, the ceremony and your parents and all.”

“Oh.” Sherlock drops his bag and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s frowning.

“Is everything alright?” John asks. “You seem… irritated. Did your exam go alright?”

“I’m fine, the exam was fine, I’m just tired.” Without another word, Sherlock retreats to the bedroom, John watching him go, a twinge of worry rising in his chest. But he’s known Sherlock long enough by now that he can tell that talking is off the table right now. So, swallowing down his concern, he returns to the kitchen and finishes cooking. It may be one of Sherlock’s favourite recipes, but if John’s honest, another reason he’s making it is so he has something to do other than obsessing over tomorrow. He’s not nervous about the actual graduation, but he is a bit anxious about meeting Sherlock’s parents. Sherlock doesn’t speak much about them, so John has been left to just imagine what they might be like. And if they’re anything like Mycroft…

And now with Sherlock being in such an odd mood, John is getting _really_ worried.

By the time the food is done, there has been no sound from the bedroom for thirty minutes. John strides to the door and knocks. “Sherlock? Are you hungry?”

A pause, then: “No.”

“Are you okay, love?” John asks. 

“Fine.”

John sighs. “Are you sure? Your monosyllabic answers are telling me otherwise.”

“I said I’m fine.”

John huffs. “Dammit, Sherlock. I thought we were past this. I thought we were communicating.”

“Showing you my poems wasn’t a magical cure, John!” he snaps back.

John’s heart sinks. This is far from an ideal time to have this sort of fight, not when there is so much change before them — the graduation, the idea of moving in together, the upcoming Ellipsis Award… 

There’s a longer pause this time, then, in a quiet voice John has to strain to hear through the door, Sherlock says, “We’ll talk later, alright?”

He doesn’t sound so defensive now, and John sags in relief. “Okay. I made that thing with the peas you like. Come out if you want to eat.”

“Maybe.”

So John eats alone, trying to get some reading done at the same time. But his mind keeps drifting to Sherlock, locked away in this strange bad mood. He shouldn’t feel that way, John keeps thinking. It’s the eve of his graduation from uni. He’ll be a graduate chemist after tomorrow. What could be wrong?

* * *

That evening, John still has not dared to venture into the bedroom. He eats, puts away the leftover food, and cleans the dishes and the entire kitchen. Then, he finds the PDF of the galley proof in his inbox and spends nearly an hour just staring at the first chapter, soaking in the fact that his new book is a step closer to being — well, a book.

He finally drags himself away and showers, starting to fret again that he hasn’t heard anything from Sherlock. When he emerges, wrapped in his warmest pyjamas, he tentatively steps into the bedroom.

It’s empty. Sherlock’s shoes, coat, and phone are gone, though the cap and gown are still hanging off an armchair. John’s heart sinks. Well, he can only hope that Sherlock is taking care of himself, wherever he is.

He sends Sherlock a text. _I’m heading to bed, darling, but please let me know you’re okay_

The reply comes quickly. _I’m fine. See you in the morning._

John tries to sleep, but ends up tossing and turning fitfully. It’s maybe ten minutes before he realizes something — he’s freezing.

He sits up, looking around blearily, and that’s when he notices that the window is open. Just barely ajar, but definitely open enough to let the chilly air inside.

“What the hell…?” he mutters, swinging his legs out of bed, seizing his dressing gown, and storming toward the window. Cautiously, he peers out, and is startled when he catches sight of a head of curls outside.

He opens the window a bit farther and sticks his head outside. Sherlock is sitting on the fire escape, hunched over. A bright red-gold pinprick reveals the cigarette in his hand.

“Hey,” John says, for lack of anything better to say.

“John.” He lowers the cigarette, breathing out a puff of air that is equal parts smoke and vapor from the cold.

“Since when do you smoke?” John asks without thinking.

Sherlock glances at him askance. “I dabble. It’s been a long while since the last time, though.”

John purses his lips, but decides the debate about quitting is a discussion for another time. “What are you doing out here?”

Sherlock sighs. “Thinking.”

Knowing he will regret this, John climbs out of the window into the cold and settles down across from Sherlock as best he can.

“Cold place to be thinking,” he comments.

Sherlock shrugs. They fall silent, Sherlock gazing up at the sky and smoking, John gazing across at Sherlock and waiting. There is just enough light from the streetlamp on Baker Street and from the pale half-moon above that he can see the contemplative expression on Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock finally says.

“What do you mean?” John asks.

“With my life.”

John stares, taken aback. He has known Sherlock has been stressed and moody, but having doubts about his future? That’s news to John.

“I… I am about to graduate with a chemistry degree, but I don’t want to be a scientist. Not really. I’m not the kind of person who wants to work for the government, like my idiot brother. And working for a university doesn’t appeal to me either. Students and grading and all. No offense to your creative writing workshops.”

John chuckles. “None taken. But surely there’s something else you could do with the chem degree? Other avenues?”

Sherlock shrugs again and takes another long drag. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s not supposed to be like this, is it? I’m supposed to have a plan, a career path.”

“You don’t have to—”

“You’re one to talk,” Sherlock interrupts. His voice sounds as if he’s trying to be venomous, but it only comes out tired. “You were already published and well on your way to being extremely successful by the time you graduated. And now, you’re getting the recognition and accolades you deserve—”

“I’m a finalist, I haven’t won—”

“—and what have I done? _Nothing_.” Sherlock puts out the cigarette against the fire escape and tosses the butt toward the ground below.

John edges closer, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee. “Hey. Sherlock. Listen. You’re only twenty-five years old. And yes, you’re a genius, but you don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to have your entire life planned out. You can just think about what you want to do in the next weeks, hell, the next _days_. Your next move doesn’t have to be a career. It can just be a job. Something to do. You can find your calling later. It doesn’t have to happen right away, on a schedule. Just because other people are moving at a different pace doesn’t mean you have to match them.” He smiles reassuringly, hoping he’s saying the right things. “You don’t need answers right now.”

“What if I want answers right now? I dislike not knowing things, John, you know this. Especially things about myself.”

John squeezes his knee. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.”

Sherlock buries his face in his hands. “I just want to know what to do.”

“Sherlock, look at me,” John coaxes. When he obeys, John continues. “Did you know I almost joined the army instead of going to university?”

Sherlock lifts his head. “You did?”

John nods. “Yeah. I suppose I’ve never told you much about… about my father, have I?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“He was… not a bad father, really. Stern, sometimes intimidating, but he did care about me. Maybe too much,” he concedes. “He was in the army when he was younger, and never really shut up about it. It was his passion, talking about it, telling me how wonderful it was and all. His dream was for me to join, and be just like him. Cliche, really.”

“But you went to uni instead.”

John half-smiles. “No. I enlisted when I turned eighteen. I felt as if I couldn’t let him down, that it would be a betrayal he’d never get over.”

“But…” Sherlock frowns. “You told me you’ve always loved books. Writing. You wrote your first original story as a youth. You’ve never once mentioned anything related to the military, in any context.”

“I know. But I felt backed into a corner. I loved my dad.” John sighs. It’s been ages since he last talked about this to anyone. “But the night before I was set to leave for basic training, I backed out. I was terrified, but I hadn’t been able to admit it to myself until that night. I remember standing there, staring at my packed bags, and thinking how much I was dreading leaving.

“And there was so much pressure,” he goes on. “Dad was so proud and excited, telling me I was carrying on his legacy, giving me advice, on and on and on. I couldn’t take it. So I didn’t go.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine your father took that lying down.”

John laughs without humor. “Understatement. He yelled for… oh, at least an hour that next morning. Mum cried the whole time to see us fighting. I ended up taking those bags I’d packed and leaving. Went to stay with my sister Harry until I got accepted into uni.”

Sherlock tilts his head. “What did your parents think of that?”

“Mum was secretly happy I was safe. She admitted it once on the phone. Dad… well, he just didn’t talk about it. He barely talked to me again.”

Sherlock places his hand over John’s on his knee. “I’m sorry.”

John nods. “Me too. But I’d made my choice, and I don’t regret it. So I worked my way through uni. Started the book that ended up being _Felony in Finchley_ during my first year. One of my professors urged me to try to find an agent, and…” He holds his hands out to the side as if to say _here I am_. “The point is, I didn’t expect my life to have gone in this direction, and I don’t know where it’s going from here. But no one does. You just make the best of what you have. And you, Sherlock Holmes, have a lot. Your mind, your heart, you have so much to give. Whatever you do with it will be brilliant.”

Sherlock manages a smile, and John relaxes. He may not have solved Sherlock’s problems, but he doesn’t have to. He made him smile; that’s enough for now.

“Surely your parents are proud of you?” Sherlock says after a while. “I remember you telling me once that you don’t speak to them much. They don’t approve?”

“Well…” John purses his lips. “I don’t know, honestly. After the way they treated Harry when she was having her problems with alcohol, I… I just couldn’t deal with them anymore. I cut off contact back when I was still in uni.”

Sherlock gazes at him, wearing an expression more sympathetic than most people would believe he could muster. “Thank you for telling me this.”

John nods. “I should have told you a long time ago. We’ve been together a year, after all.”

“John, please. We both know I’m the less forthcoming one. You’ve told me about your sister, and parts of your childhood. I deduced your parents were a bit of a sensitive subject, though, so I didn’t press.”

John scoots closer, and Sherlock shifts so John can settle between his legs. “That’s considerate. Thank you.”

Sherlock presses a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re welcome.”

They fall silent, enjoying the sensation of being so close. After a while, though, Sherlock puts his arms around John’s waist. “I used to look at the stars as a child. My mother used them to teach me trigonometry. I deleted the solar system from my head, though, after one of my peers told me it was stupid. He was intimidating, and I was already ostracized. But I didn’t delete the stars. Didn’t want to disappoint my mother.”

John peers up at him. “Why are you telling me this? Not that it’s not a good story.”

Sherlock smirks. “I’m telling you because I know about not wanting to disappoint your parents. But I’m sorry your relationship with yours has gone so badly. I hope you’ll like mine.”

“So do I,” John admits. Then, after a moment, he adds, “You should learn the solar system again. That kid in your class was wrong. Besides, I want to have a heated debate about Pluto with you, and I can’t if you aren’t informed.”

Sherlock chuckles. “I might.”

“And to bring this back full circle,” John goes on, sitting up and twisting to face him. “You don’t have to know about your future yet. We’re young; we’re not supposed to have answers.”

Sherlock scowls. “I suppose so.”

“I’ll be happy to just have you as my kept man until you get a job,” John teases.

That coaxes a laugh out of Sherlock, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “That would be an honor,” he grins. “But perhaps you could keep me inside?”

John nudges him. “Oi, you’re the one who came out here in the first place!”

He stands, though, and helps Sherlock upright. They scramble back through the window — giggling when John nearly stumbles and falls — then collapse into bed.

“Love you,” John says, kissing Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock’s face lights up, as it always does when John says those words to him. “And I, you.”

John pulls him close, and together, they sleep.

* * *

The next morning, John enters the seating area of the graduation venue, where he spots Mycroft right away. He waves John over, and John gulps.

 _Okay, here we go_.

“Hello, Mycroft,” he greets, nodding.

“Good to see you again, John,” Mycroft says. It doesn’t even sound like a lie. He’s spoken with the elder Holmes sibling a number of times, though none so memorable as the first time, when Mycroft had offered to pay John to keep him informed about Sherlock’s life. Since then, he’s always put John a bit on guard.

But today, Mycroft only shakes his hand and gives him a bland smile. Then, John sees a distraction: Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. He thinks he would know them anywhere — Sherlock’s eyes and cheekbones are instantly evident in their faces.

“You must be John!” Mrs. Holmes exclaims, leaping to her feet and bustling past a mildly affronted Mycroft to pull John into an embrace.

“Yes, hello,” he says, startled but hugging her back. She’s close to his height, with flowing silver hair. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Oh, call me Margaret, please,” she says when she steps back. “Goodness knows, Sherlock talks about you enough on the phone, we may as well be on a first name basis. This is my husband, William.”

Mr. Holmes — William — steps forward and gives John a warm handshake. He’s Sherlock’s height, wearing a jaunty bowtie and a grin. “The famous John, at last we meet. Do you know, I’ve read all your books.”

John tries not to blush. “Have you?”

“Oh, yes, Sherlock begged me to,” he says, “back when he first discovered the Sherrinford books. Sharp bloke, that Sherrinford, though I daresay Sherlock always fancied Sacker.”

“I daresay he fancies someone else now,” Margaret says with a smirk. “I have to say, John, I’m delighted he has you now. You’re such a talented and kind man.”

John smiles, touched. It seems such an easy thing for her to say, though she has only heard about him from Sherlock. Yet she is certain, and she has that look in her eye so similar to her son’s — _I know what I’m talking about_.

“Thank you, Mrs. — sorry, thank you, Margaret. But honestly, I think I’m the lucky one. Your son is… He’s amazing.”

She reaches out and pats his cheek in a motherly manner that twists John’s heart. He sits next to her, Mycroft on his left. William sits on Margaret’s other side, takes her hand in his, then leans over to address John again.

“Since we’ve a few minutes until the ceremony starts, can I ask about your new book? Sherlock won’t tell me anything.”

John laughs and opens his mouth to reply when Mycroft interrupts. “Oh, please,” he groans. “Can we perhaps start your book club later? This is going to be tedious enough as it is.”

“Hush, no one asked you, dear,” Margaret says with so much finality that Mycroft sits back in his seat, chagrined. John glances at Margaret, who winks at him.

Well, that settles it — he adores her.

They don’t get a chance to talk further, however, because just then the ceremony starts. John zones out a bit during the speeches, in favor of scanning the rows of students for Sherlock. He finds him halfway through the first speech, looking bored but still dashing.

His brilliant, gorgeous, wonderful love.

By the time the diplomas are being distributed, Mrs. Holmes is sniffling next to him. She takes John’s hand for a moment, and he squeezes back. When Sherlock’s name is called, and he crosses the stage to receive the diploma and handshakes, John himself feels his eyes getting wet. He surreptitiously brushes the tears away, and applauds louder than anyone.

He can’t wait to hug Sherlock.

The rest of the ceremony seems to take years, but at last it’s over, and the audience hurries outside to await the new graduates. John hovers near the Holmeses, all of them scanning the crowd for Sherlock.

“There he is,” William notes, his height an obvious advantage in this situation. “Sherlock! Over here, my boy!”

Sherlock appears, his cap a little askew. He glances at Mycroft, favoring him with a brief nod, but giving his parents a small smile — which widens when he sees John.

“Darling!” Margaret rushes forward, pulling her younger child into her arms. “Oh, darling, I’m so proud of you!”

“Mummy, please,” Sherlock groans, making a valiant but fruitless effort to extricate himself. “Don’t be so sentimental.”

“I’ll be sentimental if I wish,” she says, stepping back and kissing his cheek. Sherlock then is hugged, just as tightly, by his father, before finally escaping and glancing again at John.

He looks ruffled and put out, but still captivating, radiant, amazing.

“Hey, lovely,” John says, and he too seizes Sherlock in a tight embrace.

“John,” he grumbles back. “You’re all so sentimental today.”

“Just one day, you’ll have to allow it,” John laughs, then gives him a quick kiss.

“Here, I nearly forgot!” Margaret says when they break apart. “These are for you, dear.” She picks up a bouquet of flowers from on top of her purse on the ground and hands them to Sherlock.

Sherlock flushes. “Mum…”

John watches him interact with his parents, grudgingly happy by their doting, and smiles. Sherlock has become his family, and John thinks, in time, so could Margaret and William.

* * *

“Night, Mrs. H!” John calls down the stairs, then shuts and locks the door. “Bloody hell, she gets talkative when she’s tipsy.”

Sherlock laughs. “She does indeed. Though that implies she isn’t talkative normally.”

“Fair enough. She and your mum get along well.”

Sherlock shakes his head, though he is still smiling. “They’ve known each other for years now. Always conspiring.”

“What, to take care of you?” John giggles, then pulls Sherlock into his arms. “Nothing wrong with that. And I have to say, I love your parents.”

Sherlock ducks his head. “I’m glad. They’ve been dying to meet you. I'm pleased it went well. Though I’m also pleased to be shot of them for now. My parents are pleasant enough, but I can tell you’ve wanted to get me alone all day...”

He nudges at John with his nose, so John takes the hint and kisses him. He melts into the touch, having ached to do this since this morning. But the ceremony, then taking Sherlock’s family and Mrs. Hudson out to dinner, had prevented them from having any real time to themselves.

“I’ve got a present for you,” John says, then groans as he tilts his head back to grant Sherlock better access to his throat.

“Oh? I hope it’s an activity that involves fewer clothes.”

John laughs. “Well, okay, I have two presents for you.”

He pulls back, ignoring Sherlock’s small whine of protest, and pulls him toward the bedroom. He rummages in the back of the closet and pulls out a box wrapped in cheerful green paper, which he offers to Sherlock. “Here.”

“This wasn’t there yesterday,” Sherlock says, eyes going wide. He sits on the bed and places the box in his lap, fiddling with the bow.

“I hid it in Mrs. Hudson’s place,” John says, smirking. “Open it.”

Sherlock pulls the ribbon away, and John sits down next to him to watch. He lifts the lid to reveal the contents, which make Sherlock freeze.

“John, this is…”

“Yep!” John says, beaming.

“This is your new book! This is _The Second Winter_! But… how?”

“I requested a galley early,” John explains. “They aren’t supposed to be sent out quite yet, but as the author, I have a few perks.” He leans in and kisses Sherlock’s cheek. “Happy graduation.”

It is a testament to how much Sherlock cares about him that he actually sets the galley aside in favor of kissing John.

Well, for a few minutes, at least.

“Okay, enough,” Sherlock says, pulling away and sitting up straighter against the headboard. “I have reading to do. Away with you.”

John laughs and goes to make tea.

He interrupts Sherlock once — to bring him his cup — but otherwise leaves him be. After about an hour, though, John is missing him. That, and he thinks they need to have a discussion.

The things Mrs, Hudson has said yesterday, and meeting Margaret and William, have got him thinking about this again.

He knocks on the bedroom door.

“What?” Sherlock snaps immediately, voice saturated with exasperation — but also poorly disguised amusement. “Why did you give me this if you’re only going to interrupt me constantly?”

“Firstly, I have interrupted you twice, not constantly,” John says with a grin as he enters the room and climbs into bed. “How are you liking it?”

Sherlock smirks, marking his place and setting _The Second Winter_ aside. “You know how I feel about this book. Though I admit, it feels different, having it in your hands as an actual book.”

“Yeah, I know. And you’re my number one fan, so I wanted you to have it first.”

“I knew going to that book signing of yours was a good idea.”

John laughs. “Oh, of course. I should have known this was your plan all along — you go to my signing, seduce me, and get your hands on the next book before anyone else.”

“Well, I am brilliant, so how do you know that isn’t exactly what I’ve been doing?”

John tugs him close. “Well, I’m not going to complain. It’s gotten me a handsome boyfriend in the process.”

Sherlock chuckles and settles against John’s chest. “Thank you. For the galley.”

“You’re welcome.”

John holds him tight for a minute, wordless and working up the courage to speak. Then, Sherlock shifts. “You’re thinking rather loudly. Out with it.”

John sighs. Leave it to Sherlock to sense his distraction. “There is something I’d like to discuss with you. It doesn’t have to be now, though.”

“Doesn’t it? You’re making me curious.”

“Well, fine,” John smiles, “but we don’t have to decide anything right now.”

Sherlock twists around so he can look John in the eye, a crease in his forehead. “What is it?”

“Well, I was thinking…” John hesitates, realizing he hasn’t really planned what he was going to say. He’s only thought in the abstract, not the specific, about this conversation. “You know, we already spend pretty much all our nights together, and, er, the Jubilee Line’s handy from here, and—” He trails off, swallowing, his courage rather failing him. Why is this so hard? They love each other, they can cohabit without too much drama. Why is this so difficult to verbalize?

Sherlock tilts his head, obviously deducing the rest. “You’re suggesting we live together?”

“Well… yeah.” John straightens his spine, trying to ignore his nerves. Instead, he imagines waking every day with Sherlock, without fail. He imagines moving his possessions over, and bickering about where to put them amongst Sherlock’s things. He imagines sorting through their separate book collections, and deciding to combine them as a single one.

Sherlock’s lips twitch. “Well, I’m hardly opposed to having someone who actually does the cooking and cleaning and paying the bills.”

John laughs, shoving Sherlock lightly, jokingly. “Oh, shut it, cheeky.” He trails his fingers across the warm skin of Sherlock’s arm. “What do you really think?”

Sherlock smiles fully this time. “I think it’s a sensible idea. We already spend more nights here in a month than we do at your flat. But what will you do? Sell yours?”

“Probably. Or let it. I mean, I won’t need it.” His heart seems to sing. Though this won’t be a massive change from their day to day, John still adores the thought of calling this place _their_ home, rather than just Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle. “Would you like me to help you move?”

John raises his eyebrows. “Well, probably.”

“Hmm. Very well, I’ll help, but only if you pipe down and let me read this.” And with that, Sherlock shifts away from John and opens the galley of _The Second Winter_ again.

John watches, and laughs, and loves him. Their future may still be somewhat uncertain, but at least they have this.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:  
> 1\. The Ellipsis Literary Award is an invention of my own.  
> 2\. I have no idea if Baker Street would have fire escapes, but please suspend your disbelief if I am wrong LOL.  
> 3\. Reminder: galleys (also called advance editions or advance copies) are the bound paperback versions of the pre-finished book. There’s usually a minor round of editing done after these are made, for final formatting, grammar, and spelling checks. Galleys go out a few months in advance, though the exact time is at the publisher’s discretion. The number of galleys that are made and distributed — to critics, other writers, booksellers, etc. — also varies. Some books by very famous authors might not get as many galleys printed, since it’s a more certain thing the book will sell anyway. John’s books probably get a decent number of galleys, but since his book isn’t to be published until the fall, they won’t necessarily be widely distributed until spring or so, which is why Sherlock getting his in early December is such a big deal.  
> 4\. I finally came up with a title for John’s new novel, _The Second Winter_! As I’ve mentioned, John’s new protagonist Isabell is named after Joseph Bell, the “real” Sherlock Holmes. However, the plot of this book is loosely inspired by the novel _Rebecca_ by Daphne du Maurier. It’s about a woman who marries a rich Englishman, Maxim de Winter. The new bride goes to Maxim’s home, where the mysteries of his previous marriage start coming to light (she’s the second wife, therefore the second (de) Winter — see what I did there?). The original novel is really good, but there’s also this great [Sherlock/Rebecca fusion fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746892) by kinklock that I want to rec. Please read it if you haven't already!
> 
> Sorry for taking so long with this installment in the series. My life has been a little crazy lately, and I haven't had any motivation to write. I'm mostly alright, hangin' in there, but it hasn’t been easy. Writing this is helping me in this extra-strange time, though. I hope to get the next fic in this series done in the next couple months. If I don't have it posted by, say, July, please leave a comment here reminding me to get my shite together ;)


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